


My champion

by Kinns



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Coach/Player Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Office, Sweet Talk, coach kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 12:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17407139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinns/pseuds/Kinns
Summary: Only he could see that, could take care of him. Ole really meant what he said earlier: Paul did deserve the best in his life. And he would make sure he got it, because it was his coaching role and Paul was his champion.





	My champion

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> Paul n Ole gettint along so well? Makes absolute sense that I write about them.  
> Anyway, I check and try my best to fix my mistakes. Wrong, it's not beta read.  
> Hope you gonna like.  
> Enjoy!

After giving the composition against Reading for the FA League, Solskjaer asked the eighteen players to stay an hour longer to train again. He knew he had disappointed someones, but it was an opportunity to put on the field guys he had not seen in game yet.

The non-tenured for the meeting greeted him, said goodbye to their teammates wishing them good luck for the match two days later. Ole laughed at seeing Jesse hold Marcus in his arms to convey all his talent, motivation and love despite the distance.

Ole was not really sure if these two players were really dating or were doing it to amuse the lads, but that did not bother him; it was not his problem, as long as they knew how to differentiate their personal and professional lives, he would not say a thing.

He preferred to focus on them and not meet the flamboyant eyes of a certain offensive midfielder. Out of question that he is entitled to a scene now, even if it was going to be unavoidable. After some jokes from others, Jesse consented to return; even if Ole suspected that both players would spend the night together.

But let's focus, okay? Ole had a job to do and learned the tricks of the trade with his players, as well as other staff members. It was good to feel so much surrounded and supported, as in the old days when he was one of those running in the field.

After reviewing different tactics and working on their technique, the players were released a bit late, but that was the easiest part. On the way to the locker room, he reminded them all to rest well, Lukaku made a sexual joke about Rashford and Lingard, causing general hilarity.

Ole patted Marcus' shoulder gently, then continued to his office; the difficult part would begin. If it was not now, it would be at their next altercation and Ole had no desire to drag that weight any longer than necessary. A light was passing under the door, a sign that someone was inside waiting for him. With a sigh, he entered and was not surprised to see his number six sitting in his chair.

"You are not the coach, Pogba."

The player glared at him, but obeyed the underlying order as Solskjaer closed behind him. Paul leaned against the guest-side desk in front of him, his fists clenched, his eyebrows furrowed, his face closed.

"Why?"

Ole was not surprised by the question, which clearly required an answer. With assurance, he walked to Paul to stand within his perimeter, as he spoke:

"I want to know my team, I need to know who to play with, what you all have in your bellies to make better combinations."

The anger in Paul's gaze did not change, only his frown deepened. Ole did not like to see him in this state, did not like to know Paul felt bad because of his decisions, but he was the coach, it was his role to do what was best for them.

"Am I not good enough for you?"

Ole observed those black eyes full of determination with admiration and affection; he was crazy about Pogba's eyes because you could read in him as in an open book, as soon as you understood his irises. Right now he did not see just anger, but also misunderstanding, pain, fear, uncertainty... The situation with Mourinho was so bad that it had left marks on Paul.

"Of course you are, Paul. I can not just rely on my fifteen best players every time, it's stupid and not strategic."

The black eyes filled with water the next second, as he felt that Pogba was using everything he had in him to not touch him, not to cling to him. He could not touch him, too much was at risk for that.

"Why Rashy, Anthony, and Rom, then? Why not me?"

The desire to prove what he worthed, to show that he could do great things, that he was not a weight in his team... Ole had understood very quickly that Pogba was not seeking the other players' approval but only his coach's; and it broke his heart to realize that his predecessor had starved him of attention for no reason.

"They will have a supporting role, and unlike you, they did not make the match in full; you spent a lot of stamina, Paul."

Paul bit his lip angrily, looking straight ahead, refusing that answer. Ole kept his sigh inside, because he knew it made Pogba aware of how unhappy he was. Instead, he decided to stand in front of him and put his hands on the desk, on both sides of the player's waist, keeping him captive. The air changed as he heard the offensive midfielder swallow his saliva.

Solskjaer knew he was playing with fire, that what he did with Paul was not good for both of them, but he could not help it. He loved this little boy too much to prevent him from having what he wanted, to dare to say no to him.

"Paul, you know I'm doing this for the sake of the team, for  _your_  sake? You're still hurt, I do not want to make it worse, do you know it,  _min mester_  ?"

Paul shivered pleasantly because of the nickname, swallowing impatiently. The gleam of anger had died out, nothing remained but waiting, tenderness, and confidence. He was waiting for his coach's next action and Ole saw it very clearly.

He would have had to be blind and deaf not to understand Paul's particular expectations, because it was obvious that he wanted his approval, that he wanted to make him proud and make him happy. Ole could not resist such a sweet look, which asked him to take care of him, which asked him if he was good enough for him.

Leaning against Paul's ear, he whispered in a deep voice:

"You are my champion,  _min mester_ , and I want to take care of you, can I?"

Paul nodded without answering, but his quick breathing was the only thing audible in the office. Ole breathed against his ear, kissed his neck and smiled as he felt him tremble with excitement and embarrassment. The offensive midfielder was aware of the least of his actions, waiting for him to be told what to do, to have the permission to touch him.

No matter how much the situation amused and pleased him, it was time to get down to business. Solskjaer straightened to free him and gazed into his player's lost, inquiring and loving eyes.

 _"Min mester_ , on the chair."

Paul looked down, "Yes coach." and obeyed. In all honesty, Ole was really surprised the first time he saw that side of Paul.

He had watched him play in Man United, watched the World Cup closely and saw him in the locker room before every game: Paul was a leader. From his first selections in U16, he stood out: always concerned about his teammates' well-being, ensuring that everyone is at ease, relaying between coaches and youngsters to promote their thoughts, present for the speeches of encouragement before a match, to motivate his team in the locker room...

Ole understood why Mourinho had put him captain at one point: he had the guts for it.

Paul's word counted in the locker room with newcomers and those younger than him. The older ones respected him because he showed them respect and proved to them every day that they could count on him. When there were conflicts, the guys sometimes came to ask for Paul's advice to solve the problem.

Pogba was a force of nature, was not accountable to anyone, stood up and assumed everything he did. It was clearly the captain in the locker room.

But as soon as he faced his coach, things changed: he became so obedient, docile and malleable. He let Ole do whatever he wanted, enjoyed the slightest pat in the arm, the smallest praise, trying to get his full attention.

Who was Ole to refuse it to him?

Solskjaer placed his right hand on the top of the chair, next to Paul's head, and put his left knee in the space between Paul's legs. He lowered himself to whisper in his ear:

"I want your good,  _min_   _mester_ do you know it?"

Paul frantically shook his head, still without speaking. In those moments, Paul seemed to lose the use of his voice, waiting only for instructions, to be told what was expected, to take care of him, and to read between his lines; Ole had become excellent at Pog-language.

"Well," he continued, straightening himself up. "Take off your boxers."

While looking Solskjaer in the eyes, the player lifted his butt to be able to go down his training shorts and his boxer in a single blow and pulled on his shirt to reveal his length. He was not completely hard, but the effect that Ole had on him sometimes surprised him.

"Keep going," he murmured in his ear. "You know what I want to see,  _min mester_  ."

Paul moaned softly as he moved his hand down to his dick, which he started jerking off. Ole felt a movement in his belly when he heard Pogba's first groan, followed quickly by others. He had made him understand the first time that he could be noisy if he wanted, if that was what made him comfortable, because it did not bother him at all, on the contrary. He loved each of his noises, his whines, his squeaks, everything.

"Faster," he ordered.

Lowering his head under his coach's penetrating gaze, Paul accelerated the movement with groans of pleasure. Ole really liked these sounds, which contrasted with Paul's docile attitude.

"Will you come for me, _min mester_?" When Paul nodded, still without a word, Ole laid a kiss on his neck, nibbled the offered flesh, drawing a little cry of pleasure, then came back to his ear, "Then stop."

Paul raised his head to look at him without understand, lost in the aftermath of events, wondering where he might have made a mistake to disappoint him, but Ole just got up without adding anything. Taking all his time, he went to open a drawer in his office, took a packet of tissue and came back to lean against the desk, in front of Paul.

His hand had not moved, his eyes were veiled by pleasure and expectation, his half-open mouth appealed to lust, and his vulnerable air made him want to tease him. That was exactly what he was going to do, by the way: he took out one tissue, which he put on Paul's leg, kneeling in front of him. The effect was immediate, he spread the thighs further, breathing faster and moved involuntarily his hips.

"Coach," he whined like a cry for help.

With his right hand, he caressed Paul's cheek, his luscious lips he wanted to taste, then went down on his nape.

"Do you know what edging is, Pogba? That's what we will do."

His gaze is automatically filled with surprise and his expression becomes discomfited; he seemed on the verge of panic. Ole knew that Paul did not like him to call him by his first name when they were so close, not when he said Pogba only when he was serious or upset by his player.

"What - But coach - Why? I do not - what is it - you -"

Ole put his index finger against his voluptuous mouth to keep him quiet, then gently forced the passage to meet the ivory teeth. He played with his hot and wet tongue, watching with delight the number Six's submission, always ready to let him do what he wanted on this part of his body; Ole was certain that Paul would be beautiful around his dick. Reflexively, Paul began to move his hand to the south again.

" _Min mester,_ " he felt the boy shiver at the agreement of his nickname. "A good coach will take care of all his players, not just one, am I right?"

Paul plunged his innocent look into his, before nodding shyly, unable to speak because of the phalanx in his mouth, continuing to play with it. He moaned as best he could, then stopped the movement of his hand.

"A good coach will make sure to make play his whole team and they are all well rested, right?" Again, he agreed. "And a good coach hears his players, takes into consideration what they say, but will have the last word, right?"

Reluctantly this time and with sad eyes, Paul nodded and looked down. Shit, he had made up the painful memories of his predecessor, he did not want that. Ole lowered himself to find his gaze, saying nothing. When Paul agreed to confront him, Ole spoke softly:

"I want to take care of all my team and make them play, Paul, not only you. You have to rest, because the next match is against Tottenham and I need you,  _Min mester."_

Paul let out a long moan of pleasure, because that was exactly what it took to excite him to his fullest; to talk to him about football while praising him and playing with his tongue, orgasm assured. But Paul knew what he was waiting for, so he restrained himself from coming.

"Does a good player ask or demand answers?"

The understanding was immediately read in the player's eyes, since he knew why his coach was doing so. Ole removed his finger from his mouth but stroked his cheek.

"He asks."

If there was one thing that did not change under any circumstances, that was it: Pogba always stood up for his choices. A failed haircut, an error of play, a disproportionate reaction, a confrontation, Pogba assumed the consequences of his actions without faltering. No stammering, stuttering, or hesitation.

"A good player accepts the coach's decisions and  _asks_  for explanations if he is not satisfied, right?" Paul nodded. "Have you been a good player, Pogba? "

"No."

"No who?"

"No, _coach_."

"You know what you have to do."

Paul turned his right hand around his length, his attention on his coach. Ole took Pogba's left hand in his to show his support, to show him that he was here, even if he did not touch him.

"You do know I will never put you on the bench or offside to punish you, right?"

He did not want Paul to accept everything he did for that fear. He was not Mourinho, he did not want to summon him to a match to force him to be in the front row of his punishment, he could not do that. It was horrible and disrespectful, he would never dare to hurt him so much, Paul was his player, his champion, _his mester_. He had to trust him on that, he would never mix what he was going on and off the pitch.

Paul held his hand harder, opened his mouth to speak, but closed it to hold back a complaint and stopped moving the one holding his dick. He swallowed, drowned in pleasure, then blinked and offered him a smile.

"Yes, I know," he replied with a small voice. "Oui je sais."

Paul spoke fluent English, Italian and French, and was good in Spanish. No matter the language, he knew and could express himself as he wished. He was good with words, knew the impact he could have and never the language would be a drag. He was comfortable with these four languages. When he wanted to show his absolute confidence to Solskjaer, he answered in French. Always obvious, simple things, because they understood each other, trusted each other and were on the same wavelength. Ole himself murmured praises in the deep of his ear in Norwegian, with affection and tenderness.

"Good,  _min mester."_

Ole looked down at the neglected length and came back to Paul's eyes. The message was immediately understood, because Paul began to move his hand again, nibbling his lip so as not to be too noisy. This vision would be right for him, it was terrible.

Solskjaer did not even say how long he should do that, but Paul did not ask him questions and obeyed, because he knew he deserved it and Ole knew he loved being teased like that. Despite his puppy eyes, he was not going to tell him to stop now.

"Coach," he called in a broken voice. "Coach, talk to me. Please."

Here is another thing that did not change in Pogba: he could not stand the silence. It was also something Ole had learned: Paul liked being praised. The Six stopped talking in those moments and liked to be talked to kindly, to make love to him in words, to feel the other person present with him. He liked being taken care of, like a cute little fragile thing, despite what he looked like physically.

Squeezing their joined hands, Ole granted his request:

" _Min mester_ , I want to take care of you, can I? Because you are the best, I want to offer you the world on a silver platter. You deserve all that is most beautiful in the world,  _min mester_  ."

Paul moaned with pleasure while squeezing his dick to keep him from coming. The  _sweet talk_  was Paul's huge weak point, he was so sensitive to that that the task was getting harder, but he liked to hear gentle words so he could not help himself.

Ole wondered if he could one day try the  _dirty talk_  with Pogba, but it would be complicated: the young man was too sweet in these moments to fully appreciate the thing. The trust between them was still young, probably in a few weeks or months, it would be conceivable, but certainly not now.

"Coach, please..."

Paul was biting his lip forcefully, asking permission for anything; to come, to be touched, to hear other things, everything, or perhaps nothing. Ole was not going to stop teasing him now:

"I brought you a tissue, didn't I? You should use it, it would be a shame to dirty everything, do not you think?"

Paul jerked off again, squeezing his hand into Solskjaer's, then dipped a wet look into the firm one of his coach. There he was, that expression that made Ole want to return Paul to a desk and take him until he cried all the tears from his body.

"Coach, I... My hands are..."

Paul clearly did not want to let go of his hand, since they started this little game between them, he had always came holding it that way. It was time to get out of his comfort zone.

"You have been a bad player, you will come without my hands. Can you do it, Paul?" 

Of course he could, but he was struggling to get out of his comfort zone, it was up to Ole to help him, so he continued: 

"Imagine that: you arrive in front of the goal zone, a teammate on the left, a teammate on the right, but caught by the opposing players. In front of the goalkeeper, a defender. What do you do to score?"

Paul could not think, not when a look from his coach on his dick reminded him of his task. How to do it, he could try a passage in force, but what if he missed? He was good, but that was not what the coach was waiting for. He wanted team play, assists, rather than uncertain direct shots.

He moaned in surprise as he felt lips on the inside of his thighs and opened his eyes: his coach was kneeling before him, authoritarian despite his position, and waiting for him to find the right combination, while caressing his skin with his hand free.

"Feinte ... I feint right for them to follow me, and I pass on the player on the left."

Ole looked pleased and added, "You do not have to feel them to know they're here. What are you going to do then,  _min mester_? "

Pogba closed his eyes, before letting go of his coach's hand. He took the tissue to put it over his dick, he continued to jerk. Immediately Ole's warm palm rested on his thigh in emotional support. Behind his eyelids, he saw the situation perfectly clear: he dribbled to the right to attract other players on him and make them believe a direct shot. His teammates were there with him,  _his coach_  was there with him, he had nothing to fear.

A kiss startled him as he felt his body melt under the soft torture. He did not hold a loud groan of pleasure when the coach sucked his skin to mark it. His bowels would melt, he was in heat, it was unbearable but so good. Fortunately, Solskjaer kept his thighs open, since he wanted to curl up on himself to calm what he felt.

If he opened his eyes now, he knew he would come, but he could not, not now. He breathed to clear his head and calm the stars he saw. He would not hold on longer.

" _Min mester_ ," Ole waited a few seconds to give Paul time to come back down and focus on him. When their eyes met, he continued, "Come for me."

The next second, he felt Paul shiver from head to toes, groaning, without fear of being heard, imagining Rashy, Jesse, Rome or Anthony scoring on his pass. Ole smiled at this magnificent vision, happy to be the source, to see his champion as beautiful and vulnerable.

Only he could see that, could take care of him. Ole really meant what he said earlier: Paul really deserved all the best. And he would make sure he got it, because it was his coaching role and Paul was his champion.

_Hans mester._


End file.
